


Icarus

by MelodyGarnet



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, M/M, based on song Recessional by Vienna Teng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:53:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyGarnet/pseuds/MelodyGarnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courtship is a war, and the war becomes courtship and his pen and sword are equally mighty. He wages battle every moment, runs himself into the ground and up into the sky, closer and closer to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” John asks. He looks out over the camp from the hillside they were sitting on. Alexander has to agree, but he isn’t looking at the camp anymore, doesn’t notice the silence of a sleeping camp, the firefly lights of glowing coals in campsite fires, the stars shining above them, the light fog mixed with smoke that float between the tents. All he sees is the fireflies reflected in Jon’s eyes, the constellations glowing on his red cheeks, the breath leaving his plush mouth in white puffs of smoke, John’s awed silence at the view before him.

“Yes. It is.’, he says.

Alexander never thought he’d find it here. He’d never thought he’d find it ever. He could try until he breathed his last, but no pen could ever do this moment justice. John’s side is pressed against his as they share a blanket against the early winter cold. His heat is an iron brand Alexander would never shake off again. He feels the coarse cloth of the blanket, the itch of his uniform, the satin of John’s unruly hair. Alexander looks away. John would see him if he looked in his eyes, through and through, and see- _finally, finally, why hadn’t he seen it already, why hadn’t he gone yet?_ \- that Alexander wasn’t worthy of him. Who was he, to deserve John?

No-one. He was no-one.

What a change that was. He thought he’d left this behind when he crossed the sea, had buried it beneath bravado and ambition six feet deep, but John brought it all up again, a barbed arrow that raked up his spine, tugged at his heartstrings, drove other thoughts away anytime they were together.

He shouldn’t want it. What man would want to feel like this? He swore no man would want to feel like this. But he did, because it meant John was with him still, that he hadn’t gone yet.

John’s breath slows to a crawl and he moves closer to Alexander in search for warmth. Fallen asleep. Alexander forgets what he’s thinking, forgets everything but them. The view of the camp had long lost his interest, the fog rolls in and there’s only the two of them, sharing heat. Alexander looks his fill now in the dark, traces his contours with his finger. He can’t look at John in the sunlight. He wouldn’t stand it, he would melt, he would fall and crash and burn.

And yet, here John was, having fallen asleep on his shoulder, his head tucked between Alexander’s shoulder and the tree they were leaning against. His satin hair had fallen down before John’s face like a curtain, clouds before the sun. His mouth is open and he drools slightly on Alexander’s uniform. Alexander doesn’t mind, he smiles; no doubt John would rise with the grooves of the tree’s bark burning red lines on his face. A brand of Alexander on John, proof that this was real, this had happened. Proof that would fade.

Lafayette called to them from the bottom of the hill; it was late, they needed to come to their shared tent and rest. Alexander gently shakes John, delights in his slow awakening- a sign of trust if there ever was one, soldiers that they were. John stays half-asleep, too tired to be roused. He crawls closer, nuzzles into the spot between his neck and shoulder, his breath is fire on Alexander’s skin. It can’t mean anything. Alexander doesn’t look, drags John up on his feet and drags John down the hill with unsteady paces. He’s flying, though, spreading his wings- John’s weight against him lifts him up.

It means nothing, nothing, it couldn’t, not yet. He needed to deserve John first, become so brave, so honourable, get a command. Is a command equal to a title? Would it be enough? How high should he place his ambitions to finally feel worthy of this shining boy?

Words are Alexander’s strength so he uses them. They are his feathers; he needs to build wings before he can reach the sun. Pay attention to his words. Who is John? What does he need? How can he give it to him? He shares what moments he can with him, steals away with him to sit side by side, writes notes upon notes upon notes, and letters, too. He burns them all as he imagines the general does with spies’ written information. Courtship is a war, and the war becomes courtship and his pen and sword are equally mighty. He wages battle every moment, runs himself into the ground and up into the sky, closer and closer to John.

He becomes unlike himself when he uses what techniques he learns on unsuspecting girls whenever the soldiers get to visit the familiar streets, an amoral and amorous spy, writes words down that are meant for John and addressed to someone else. He feels hollow but it will be worth it, so worth it, once he knows for sure that the fan to a spark will fan the pyre he wishes to throw himself on.

He thinks he’s got, he’s finally got it, when Washington notices him, when Eliza does, when he gets a command and the promise of wealth and even love (because he does love Eliza, he does, but she is a hearth where John is a blazing sun). He finally feels, if not John’s equal, then close to it. His wings are not what he thought they would be, but they are there, they work, he rises up.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Alexander.” The groom smiles. He thinks of every girl he seduced, every note he wrote, that moment on the hill. He is ready, he is worthy, finally, finally.

John looks at him. “I would say, be true,…” – _a warning? is that sadness? why is he sad? this moment is good, this is a moment of happiness, this is the apotheosis, the climax of his battle: his hand so close to the sun, ever closer, they can touch soon, the light is so bright!_ \- “…but no friend of mine could ever not be true, so I’ll not say anything. Go to your wife. I’ll see you around.”

He shakes the groom’s limp hand, a hot brand that stays forever, and walks away. Alexander stares at his back, _oh god_. His heart falls without ever being burned, it is crushed under John’s retreating feet, it falls with the snow that twirls over the doorstep when John opens the door and steps outside. The draft that sweeps inside makes foggy breath rise from the guests, blows out a dozen or so firefly-and-starlight candles and only the hearth’s flame doesn’t die. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic isn't based on any historical figures (although I do hold that the real Hamilton was very probably biromantic or bisexual). The plot and feelings are based on my interpretation of the song and of the broadway characters. I don't own any of it (sadly).
> 
> Dedicated to iknowiknow-shh-iknowiknow-shh.tumblr.com because they inspire the best hamilton headcanons in me, i swear, it's ridiculous.


End file.
